I thought I'd stay awhile and watch you breathe
by theredoaktree
Summary: 'He likes to watch her in moments like this.' A short fic of Arya and Gendry on the road north.


He likes to watch her in moments like this.

In the daytime she is quiet, calculating. Her face is hard stone and she _sees_ everything. He can almost hear her thinking and somedays he just wants to shake her, to tell her look at him, notice him, talk to him. It's not that she's being impolite or cruel, but she's changed so much since he first met her. Then she was grieving - in her own stages of mourning, yes - but there was still a child in there. Still a young girl who laughed when Hot Pie said something particularly stupid, or who playfully punched him in the arm when he scared off what was going to be that night's supper.

Now, though, she was just… quiet.

When she first came upon him in the woods behind the forge at the Inn, the emptiness - the _hollowness_ - of her was all he saw. And then came the grey of her eyes, the long braid of her hair, the litheness of her limbs, the swell of her chest, her hips; and he knew then he'd follow her anywhere she was going. Everywhere. He'd follow her because he knew who Arya was and she might forget all she wanted but he'd be there to remind her. He'd make her remember.

But it was trying at first and he'd oftentimes lose patience with her. With the way she spoke in riddles, the answers-that-were-not-answers she gave. It took every amount of effort and patience he'd had just to get her to tell him where she'd been these last six years. And even that information was brief. _Braavos,_ is all she'd said. _I was in Braavos and there was a kindly old man and I learned many things._ And then she'd climbed atop her horse, signaling that another day of riding north had begun.

They'd stopped for the the night, setting up camp a little ways off the road. A half-burned stable beside the remnants of what used to be a small cottage served as well as anything, and after a supper of cooked rabbit, Arya'd insisted on taking first watch so he could sleep.

But he didn't sleep. He watched.

He watched her sit and stare into the fires. But not stare into them like he used to when he tried to be something he wasn't. Then, he was searching for something - for a face, for the whisper of an answer, for a shift inside of him that told him what to do. He was just wandering, biding his time, and well at least looking into the fires helped to pass the time. But she wasn't looking for anything. She didn't look to the fires for an answer. She didn't want answers, she wanted focus.

"Gendry," she called from her perch against the wall. "I took first watch so you could sleep. I didn't mean for you to lay there like some ghost in the night, wide-eyed and watching." She says it accusingly, but he sees it. The shadow of that dimple just to the right of her lower lip that means she could smile if she'd just let herself. He sees it and feels that place inside of him fit together _just so,_ knowing that he'd make himself look a fool for the rest of his days if it meant he got to see that dimple.

"It's hard to sleep with the bite of the cold ground against your skull," he said. It had turned cold the past week, the ground hardening with a layer of frost on it. And not the cold that enters at night and leaves at dawn like a fog. No, this was the cold of winter. Arya's winter. The coming of it is here and they're feeling it. He would have advised that maybe they should stick to the King's Road in order to quicken their time to Winterfell had they not been so close already. But they're now only two, maybe three days' ride away, and the two blankets and cloaks they have can suffice until then.

"Well, come here, then."

He raises his head, looks at her. Makes sure he heard it. And she's looking at him, the grey steady and calm and _gentle._ And he won't question it because he's never seen Arya gentle before. So he gets up, scoots over to sit beside her. _No,_ she says and pats her lap. Legs outstretched toward the flames.

And he is very tired and she is probably _so warm,_ much warmer than the hard earth and softer. So he lays down, head in her lap, and tilts his face toward her. But she isn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes are back on the fire as her head leans back against the wall. And oh, this is the most comfortable he has been in ages and he doesn't want to sleep now for fear of not feeling _this._ This ease, this gentleness, this security that she's giving him. He wants it to last and last and last.

But now her hands are in his hair, timidly smoothing out the dark strands, and he can't help but start to let his eyes fall close. It's the best he's felt in a long time, maybe ever, and he'll succumb to it.

The in-and-out steadiness of her stomach is the last thing he holds onto before he drifts.


End file.
